


(one) shots on goal

by somewhereelse



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Everything is soft, F/F, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 9,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21795467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereelse/pseuds/somewhereelse
Summary: Short TC things that didn’t want to live in my brain anymore.
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 90
Kudos: 708





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the terrible pun/title.

The condo is smaller than one would expect.

(She would say especially for a professional athlete, but there’s a reason they’ve been fighting for equal pay for years. Still, Tobin, having been on the national team for a near decade now, can afford a place bigger than this if she wanted to. It’s just not her style.)

The size isn’t really surprising since Tobin claims it’s basically a storage unit, especially in the off season, but it is a little concerning.

If they were just going to continue to use it as glorified storage space, then it’d be fine. As it stands, Christen has no idea how they’re going to fit both their stuff. Never mind _live_ in it.

“What?” Tobin asks, somehow ridiculously attuned to her moods whenever they’re alone but especially whenever they’re in Portland. It’s like she never wants Christen to have so much as a bad thought here, and after last night’s shy, careful question, Christen now knows exactly why Tobin’s been so intent on showing her the best of the city. “What’s wrong?”

Christen sighs, the sound soft instead of agitated. She rubs a comforting hand over Tobin’s shoulder because it’s really, “Nothing.”

Tobin just raises her eyebrows and waits her out.

“It’s just”—she sighs again, waves a hand near her temple—“Thinking about logistics, I guess.”

“I’ll make room for you,” Tobin answers immediately, not needing to know what logistics Christen was specifically referring to. She could have been talking about her flight back to LA or the next camp or their long-awaited vacation but, of course, she wasn’t. And, of course, Tobin knew that.

It’s not that she doubts Tobin’s sincerity, but the response was kind of flippant, in her standard distracted-Tobin way, so Christen sits there, mind still calculating.

“Hey.” Tobin pauses the game, turns sideways to sit cross-legged on the couch, and pushes just a little more into her space with her knees pressing against Christen’s thigh. “I mean it. I want to make room for you here. I want us to have the same space, the same _home_. I want our stuff overlapping. I want to forget if that’s my shirt or your sweater. I want you here all the time you can be and I’ll do whatever I need to.”

There’s so much earnestness shining in Tobin’s eyes that Christen can’t help herself. She leans in and slowly, softly, kisses her until they’re nearly melted together and quietly struggling for breath, conditioning be damned. Then she hooks a finger into Tobin’s shirt collar and tugs, loving the way Tobin immediately falls into her.

“This _is_ my shirt.”

“And this is my sweater,” Tobin laughs, pulling at the hem before slipping her fingers under.

“Babe,” Christen pants, trying not to squirm at the light, tickling touches, “Do you have any idea how many clothes I own?” She stretches behind herself to fling an arm in the direction of the bedroom _area_ , not even a full, enclosed room with a door. “That’s _barely_ even a closet in there.”

Tobin’s eyes light up, and Christen just knows she’s in for some teasing. “Is this why Kelley still calls you Princess Press?” Her response is an exaggerated eye roll. “I don’t care about, like, anything in here. We can throw everything out, or donate, whatever, and fill it back up with your entire wardrobe.”

“Everything?” It’s Christen’s turn to raise a teasing eyebrow. “What about your Supreme Air Force 97s or whatever? All the _shoes_ , Tobin. Are you just going to abandon them? Leave them homeless? The horror!”

Tobin pinches her side and rolls her eyes right back. “Okay, maybe we’ll get an actual storage unit for the shoes. But I mean it, Chris. I don’t care about stuff. All I care about is having you here. With me.”

Her heart swells, and she carefully smooths out the worried creases in Tobin’s expression. “I just want to be with you, too.”

* * *

A week later, Christen turns back up after stops in both Chicago and Los Angeles to collect _things_. Yet the only item she pulls off the baggage carousel is a medium-sized suitcase, not even her large US Soccer one. Tobin’s frown relays her confusion, but she waits until they’re back at the condo to ask.

“So did you ship some stuff, or is that all you need?”

“No,” Christen lets the door shut behind them before she steps into Tobin’s space, carefully cradles her face in warm hands, and kisses her soundly, “ _You_ are all I need.”

After a moment of savoring, Tobin jerks back to reality with a sheepish grin and gestures vaguely behind herself. “ _Oh_. Well, uh—”

Christen looks past her shoulder then and finds the condo damn near empty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An early morning meeting at camp featuring infuriatingly slow TC and impatiently loud Kelley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought summaries might be helpful? I don’t know.
> 
> AU timeline because I can’t be bothered to song-hunt.

“ _All I do is win, win, win, no matter what. Got money on my mind I can never get enough._ ”

“Kelley Maureen! What in the actual—”

Kelley grins at the unexpectedly uptight reprimand from Pinoe. There’s good reason for it. It’s too fucking early for a meeting, and she’s somehow beaten everyone down to plug her phone into the auxiliary cord for the room’s sound system and reposition the speakers by the door. Hunched over her breakfast, she waits for a text from Allie, stationed by the elevators in the lobby, to inform her of the next teammate/victim to head into their breakfast/conference room. 

Then she cues up the music clips she’s picked out for each of them and blasts them like personalized little scare attacks at 5:30 am.

No one’s even trying to warn the newcomers, figuring if they had to suffer through to get to breakfast, so should everyone else.

“Where’s Pressy?” she asks, looking forward to the person who will enjoy this new tradition the second least. ( _Carli_. Carli (“ _Standing in the hall of fame and the world’s gonna know your name_.”) will always enjoy her brilliant ideas the least.)

Pinoe mumbles something about Ash going to Ali’s and Christen’s room but then heads straight for the coffee.

Frowning at the unhelpful answer, Kelley looks down to another text from Allie. This one’s just two heart emojis so she cues it up even though it’s predictable and basically a cliché by now. Hey, she only had one night to pull this playlist together.

“ _Bring me a higher love. Where’s that higher love I keep thinking of?_ ”

“Kelley!”

Ali and Ash are at least just exasperated instead of annoyed because she totally gave them a cop-out song. There’s still no Press, though, and the couple doesn’t get near enough to ask without shouting across the room. But someone else does.

“Tobs, come here.” When the midfielder collapses into the chair between hers and Alex’s, she asks, “Where’s Press?”

Tobin (“ _I’m gon’ praise him. Praise him till I’m gon’._ ”) just looks at her weird. “How am I supposed to know?”

“How are you— Maybe because you’re, like, attached at the hip. Gotta be kidding me,” Kelley mumbles.

Before Tobin can stutter out a denial, Allie pulls through with a simple text of, “CP.”

“You know what, never mind, just hold this.”

She hits the play button then shoves her phone into Tobin’s hands in time for Christen to walk through the doors.

“ _People let me tell you ’bout my best friend. He’s a warmhearted person who’ll love me till the end._ ”

“Hey!” Alex calls out in halfhearted offense before she looks up from her phone and sees that Kelley’s has moved to Tobin’s possession. Her eyes flit to the door then Christen, and she grins, “ _Oh_. Okay. Carry on.”

Christen just rolls her eyes and continues moving towards the breakfast spread. “You guys are so juvenile,” she calls out, but there’s a blush on her cheeks, and she keeps looking over her shoulder at Tobin, who’s swatting at Kelley for the not-so-slight sleight of hand.

Kelley’s going to count that as another tally in her column. She can’t believe these idiots are going to level up their friendship to a relationship through a series of the _most_ incremental of incremental gains she has ever seen. But she’s going to take credit for every inch she can.

When Christen reappears with her coffee and breakfast, Alex practically falls out of her chair to offer it up. “Can’t interfere with the BFFs after all,” she quips, sliding onto the next seat and exchanging a smirk with Kelley. Tobin and Christen roll their eyes, but everyone notices how their chairs shift closer and closer until they’re leaning against one another for absolutely no reason at all.

Oh, yeah, Kelley’s taking credit for every freaking _centimeter_ of that.

(She’ll need that list of good deeds and gentle nudges for protection during the next camp when she debuts their new entrance song (“ _Oh, you’re my, my, my, my— Darling, you’re my, my, my, my lover._ ”) and is promptly boo’ed by everyone in attendance for the lack of originality.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dialogue re: gift wrapping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I finally finished mine.

“Chris, it doesn’t need to be perfect.”

“Shhh.”

“Seriously, doesn’t your back hurt from sitting like that?”

“Hush.”

“The boys are just going to tear through it.”

“It’s not for your nephews. I already told you I’m not doing your wrapping for you.”

“Aww, man, I was hoping you were just joking about that. But you know your sisters and dad won’t really care.”

“Not for any of them either.”

“My mom?”

“Had hers shipped directly.”

“Then _who_ is this even for? You’re agonizing over, like, tape placement. No one’s going to notice if it isn’t perfect.”

“ _I_ will.”

“Obviously.”

“Done!”

“ _Finally!_ ”

“Stop it. You weren’t exactly helping.”

“Sure I was. With my friendly reminders that sometimes done is better than perfect.”

“Not for _this_ present. Has to be as perfect as the recipient.”

“Why? Who’s it even for?”

“You, silly.”

“ _Oh_.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Think Netflix (because, oh man, Hallmark, not a good look) holiday movie, high school sweethearts who broke up for college and come back home years later for the holidays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _So_ many holiday movies.

_Cinnamon_ , Tobin repeats to herself as she peruses the spice racks.

Now would her mom want the brand name version or just generic store brand? She tries hard to remember what’s been in the pantry her last few visits home and comes up empty. Brand name, it is. After all, her mom bakes a lot, and it would hardly go to waste. After consulting the list, she plucks coriander, nutmeg, and clove off the shelf, too.

“ _Tobin?_ ”

She freezes at the voice. It’s a little higher pitched, probably from surprise, but still utterly recognizable. The jar almost falls from her hand, instinct causing her grip to tighten at the last second.

She used to fall asleep to that voice, first snuggled together on a couch, later on the phone while buried under a pile of blankets but never quite as warm. She used to listen to her voicemails on repeat, letting the cadence curl around her like the comforts of home. She used to dream about it and wake up with an ache in her heart.

(Honestly, she still dreams about it, and her heart still aches.)

Finally, when she thinks she’s got a hold of herself, Tobin turns and pushes a smile to her lips. “Hi, Chris.”

“Hi,” Christen replies softly, sounding dazed and shocked. She looks it, too, with the handle of her coffee creamer (the same old brand, go figure) dangling limply from her curled fingertips.

“You’re here? You’re home? You’re visiting?” she asks in quick succession, as if working through to the most obvious answer out loud.

Tobin’s not sure how to answer. (Because the real answer is _too_ real and too big for an awkward run-in in the baking aisle of the grocery store.) This is not how she wanted to see Christen again for the first time. So instead, she asks, “Can I— Can I give you a hug?”

“ _Oh._ ”

If she was shocked before, Christen sounds entirely floored by the request. She takes a second to think about it, Tobin’s heart hammering the entire time, before a minuscule smile tilts one corner of her mouth. No one else would see it, but Tobin’s spent too long memorizing Christen’s face to miss it.

“Of _course._ ”

Her answer is so sure and definitive that Tobin doesn’t hesitate to throw her arms around her. The feeling of Christen’s cold creamer against her back only grounds her, reminds her that this isn’t a dream at all but somehow reality. It’s a perfect homecoming and exactly what she’s been missing the last few days as she walked around the(ir) town in a haze.

Christen’s holding onto her just as tightly, and Tobin’s 99% sure she’s not imagining the quiet sniffle into her shoulder. “Missed you,” is the even quieter confession Tobin barely hears before Christen’s stepping back, face and eyes suddenly red.

The sight is remarkably familiar and the worst kind of déjà vu.

This time, Tobin promises herself, will be different. She doesn’t turn her back, she doesn’t jump into a car and then a plane, and she sure as hell won’t let Christen go (again). So that’s exactly what she does.

Christen looks surprised (again) to look down and find Tobin holding onto her hand and then erasing the distance she created.

Tobin still doesn’t mean for this to happen in the baking aisle of a grocery store but she’s starting to realize the _where_ doesn’t matter at all.

“I missed you, too,” Tobin declares, voice clear and true.

Christen turns redder, either from having her confession heard or the volume and certainty of Tobin’s.

“I heard you moved back and, well, I kind of did, too. Do you maybe want to”—she slows, cowardice replacing bravery as Christen’s disbelief grows more and more obvious—“catch up sometime?” The end of her question’s directed to the scuffed linoleum floor.

It’s not what she meant to say.

It’s not what she meant to say _at all_.

This is crazy, right?

They haven’t seen each other in _years_. They’re not remotely the same people they were at the end of high school. They’ve grown and changed and hopefully matured but gotten just glimpses of it all through social media, which they kept each other on only because they were supposed to be friends first. (That’s what they always promised, even though the heartache made it hard to remember.)

“Like a date?”

The question’s startling, and Tobin’s head snaps back up. Christen’s biting down on her lip, and her shoulders are practically at her ears, and she looks as anxious as the day she told Tobin she accepted Stanford. But her eyes shine with hope and desire, the same hope and desire reflected in Tobin’s.

A smile slowly spreads across her face before Tobin nods. “ _Exactly_ like a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now a full-length feature movie. _[Read it here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089916)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote an ode to high fives? I guess?

As a lifelong athlete, high fives are a familiar second language. 

They can be congratulatory or consolatory, quick acknowledgment or grudging apology, absent-minded or sought-out.

Tobin’s experienced just about every type of high five imaginable, from every person in her life. Even her mom gave her a high five the first time she successfully wrapped a present without any assistance or destroying an entire roll of wrapping paper. Teammates, opponents, coaches, trainers, staff, and fans alike have all offered and received the quick slap of palm against palm. Sometimes, it’s a brief brush, done only in the name of sportsmanship with the barest hint of sincerity behind it. Sometimes, it turns into a longer gesture, grip tightening to pull the other into a hug. 

They’re every day and everyday, nothing _special_ really.

Until today. 

Today, she’s got a blissful and satisfied Christen Press in her (hotel) bed. They’re worn out and breathing heavy, taking a moment to collect themselves, or at least Tobin is. Her brain’s kind of stuck on a loop of “ _that_ really _just happened”_ , and it’s hard to think past it.

“Hey,” she hears Christen pant, her smile obvious even in one word.

Tobin looks over, tries to push both her own and Christen’s messy hair out of the way before leaning up on an elbow instead, and gets distracted by the gleam of sweat collected in the hollows of Christen’s collarbones.

She swallows hard and manages a somewhat level, “Yeah?”

Then Christen lifts an open hand, smile growing wider and _smug_ , and offers, “Good game.”

The laugh bursts out of her. She’s laughing so much, and her muscles are still all trembly, she nearly misses Christen’s hand, but their damp palms connect with a satisfying _clap_. Unable to keep herself up, Tobin drops onto her back again, closer this time so their hands stay loosely clasped across their bare stomachs. 

She’s exchanged so many high fives in her life, they all pretty much blur together. But not this one. Leave it to Christen Press to make an impression. Tobin has no idea how she’s going to high-five this woman on a pitch again without turning bright red and every one of their teammates giving them shit for it for the rest of their lives. ( _Hugs_ , she’ll just have to hug her all the time instead. What a hardship.)

“ _Incredible_ game,” she corrects, and Christen turns and kisses her shoulder in acknowledgment.

There’s a minute or two of silence, rare but welcomed stillness in her world, before she feels Christen’s lips moving against her skin. “Rematch?”

“ _Oh._ ” Her breath catches in her throat at the blatantly suggestive question, but she’s not going to let a challenge like that go, least of all when it’s from Christen. “ _Hell yes._ ”

Somehow, Tobin knows any embarrassment tomorrow is already worth it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-2019 World Cup party.

“Hi.”

Christen grins brightly, happily, radiating pure joy. She hooks her fingers into a belt loop on Tobin’s jeans and tugs her lightly. Their hips bump together, not with any intent, but so that they’re side-to-side, just to be close. Then Christen’s dropping her head to Tobin’s shoulder and snuggling in as much as she can.

Before she knows it, a grin is also splitting Tobin’s face. It’s hard not to be charmed by her tipsy girlfriend, a combination of a low alcohol tolerance thanks to months of training and an even weaker ability to shut down Kelley. She once thought Christen would be the best out of any of them at resisting Kelley since she lived through and practically with pseudo frat bro Kelley at Stanford, but it’s the opposite. Turns out Kelley’s the best at loosening up Christen.

“Question,” Christen mumbles. She shifts off the wall, turning to face Tobin’s profile. Tobin wants to turn, too, to see her girl’s pretty face and pull her in close so they’re breathing the same air, but there are too many phones in the hands of too many (drunk) people, and apparently she’s the one with her wits still in tact. So she pushes her shoulder blades against the wall and tries not to think about how handsy Christen can get when she’s tipsy.

Then Tobin finally remembers that Christen wants something from her. “Yeah, Chris?” she prompts, praying the question is G-rated because she’s hyped up from the celebrations and already feeling too much tension between them.

“Can you keep me?”

“What?” Tobin laughs. 

It’s a strange question, made even stranger by the super serious look on Christen’s face. 

They’re _it_ for each other. They _know_ that. And sometimes they like to say it or show it just to revel in the security and possessiveness, but it’s never been phrased like _that_.

“Want you to keep me,” Christen murmurs, her eyes falling to Tobin’s lips, “Will you?”

“Yes,” Tobin blurts immediately, wondering how much more contact she can get away with under the guise of “23 best friends” in this still public bar.

That bright, happy, joyful grin returns to Christen’s face. “Yes!” she exclaims but doesn’t raise her arms in victory as expected. Instead, she hooks her fingers into the front pocket on the far side of Tobin and gives a sharp tug.

Tobin barely budges. Most of her weight was leaning against the wall to begin with, and Christen’s not in the mindset to really move her. But she does shift sideways to keep her balance and ends up with the side of her leg pressed along the front of Christen’s. Before she can think to stop her, Christen’s slipping her fingers through the rip in her jeans, the one about mid-thigh, and caressing the skin below.

She’s already warm, in this summer heat with this many people packed into the bar, but her body goes hot for an entirely different reason. Christen must be able to tell because she makes a pleased sound in Tobin’s ear and hums something under her breath.

Tobin can just imagine what they look like. Their teammates are singing and dancing on bars, but instead they’re huddled together in this dim corner. Christen’s all but pressing her into the wall, lips dangerously close to her neck, and Tobin can’t remember when exactly her arm made its way around Christen’s waist, pulling her infinitely closer. All she knows is that it’s getting too hot, too quickly.

“What’s that?” she asks, breathlessly, desperately.

“You can keep me inside the pocket of your ripped jeans,” Christen repeats with a lilt. 

She’s not quite singing, but the words strike a familiar rhythm. It’s a slower melody than anything they’ve heard in hours, and she doesn’t know why something like that would be on Christen’s mind. As Tobin’s trying to place it, Christen hums again in time with the gentle brush of her fingertips under the cover of denim.

The light scratch of her nails startles a choked, “ _Oh_ ,” out of her. After a reflexive shiver, Tobin wraps a slightly sweaty hand around Christen’s wrist. She’s about to yank Christen’s fingers out of her jeans and drag her somewhere private when Tyler appears. 

There’s an amused but knowing tilt to her smile, and Tobin would care more about basically getting caught with Christen’s hand in her pants if they hadn’t won a World Cup just hours ago. Her eyes flash a warning at Tyler, but it’s shrugged off with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Hey, I’m going to walk back to the hotel with Dad. You guys want to come?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Tobin chokes out. She practically pushes Christen to her sister and breathes a sigh of relief when humid air rushes into the space between them. “Chris, let’s go with Ty.”

“Let’s,” Tyler agrees after stifling a chuckle at Tobin’s blatant desperation. Another amused smirk appears before she hooks her arm through Christen’s and pulls her towards the entrance, shushing protests about it still being early.

Without even looking, Christen reaches her free hand back and slips two fingers into Tobin’s front pocket, towing her along with them. She glances back with a pleased, triumphant grin that Tobin can’t help but return, a little more bashfully.

Yeah, a certain someone is in a certain _someone else’s_ pocket, but Christen’s not the only one being kept.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College soccer housemates AU.

“Hide!”

“What?” Christen barely gets the question out before Tobin’s got a hold of her arm, tugging insistently. “Tobin! What did you—”

Her question dies the moment she’s pulled into a familiar closet, and she quickly redirects. “Is this because I refused to watch Harry Potter again? For the last time, an owl is not going to deliver a letter from Hogwarts just because you’re hiding out in the closet under the stairs.”

It’s almost pitch black so she can’t see Tobin’s eye roll, but Christen just knows it’s there.

“Hey, I know that _now_.” Tobin tacks on the last word reluctantly because her mom loves telling that story. “I ate Becky’s last thing of fruit snacks.”

“Why?” Christen whines, “ _Why_ do you have a death wish? And why do you always drag me into it?”

“Cause you’re my best friend, and I’d get lonely in here. You wouldn’t want me to die of boredom, would you, Christen?”

She’s silent for a few seconds too long.

“Chris?”

“Hush. I’m considering.”

“ _Mean_ ,” Tobin grumbles, “I’m revoking best friend status.”

“Tobin, you’re making me hide in a closet because you stole organic gummy bears. You’re not really in a position to—”

“I _knew_ it was you, Heath!”

Christen’s blinded by the hall light when Becky yanks the door open. She recovers just enough to see their captain glaring at her and holds her hands up in innocence. She has no intention of actually ratting out Tobin, though, and Becky apparently knows it, rolling her eyes and motioning her out of the way. 

“ _Press_ ,” Becky warns when she holds her ground.

Damn her loyalty. Christen doesn’t need to look behind her to know that Tobin’s buried herself under the piles of junk on the floor and that there’s nowhere for her to actually escape. Still, she’s not going to leave her _best friend_ for dead, even if that is a gross exaggeration. Becky won’t kill Tobin if only because they need her on the pitch.

“You two are ridiculous,” Becky mutters with a sigh, “Just go on a Target run after class tomorrow, alright?”

“Aye, aye, cap!” 

Christen turns in time to see Tobin’s jaunty salute from where she’s half-covered by jackets and soccer gear and wrapping paper rolls. Becky leaves them with one final eye roll and a complaint about herding cats.

“You _like_ cats!” Christen calls after her in a futile reminder to the senior captain that she also considers them her friends, whenever they’re not stressing her out to the extreme.

“Get”—she grabs Tobin by her waving hand and pulls until they’re back in the hallway—“Get out of there already, you loon.”

“Hey, weren’t you looking for this?” Tobin asks when she emerges with a bright yellow beanie Christen recognizes as Abby’s but also the white fleece pullover she’s been looking for.

Christen lets Tobin yank the sweater down over her head and pulls her arms through the sleeves. “How are you always so—”

“So _what?_ ” Tobin prompts, a studious look on her face as she also plops Abby’s beanie on her head and struggles to tuck her curls under.

The house is currently a furnace because everyone needed to defrost from post-practice ice baths. So Christen has no idea why she’s letting Tobin dress her in random winter gear she found on the floor of a shared closet, other than she’s never really been able to deny the other girl anything. See Exhibit A, Hiding from Becky after Stealing Organic Gummy Bears.

“How are you always so _lucky?_ ”

For some reason, that description brings Tobin to a grinding halt. Her hands fall limply to her side, and a frown weighs down her usually smiling lips. “You think I’m just lucky?”

“Oh, don’t”—she sighs and pulls off the beanie Tobin all but yanked down over her eyes—“I don’t mean it like that. I know how hard you work. I just mean— You’re pretty good at charming your way out of trouble.”

Tobin accepts that explanation. Her shoulders lift, and a sly smile turns up the corners of her lips. “Mom says I’m good at charming my way _into_ trouble.”

“That, too,” Christen agrees. She pushes the hat against Tobin’s chest until she takes it then shuts the closet door on that adventure.

“Come with me tomorrow?” Tobin asks and then clarifies, “To Target? I’ll buy you Starbucks.”

“See?” Christen sighs, helpless once more to Tobin’s request, “ _Charmer_. You really know the way to a girl’s heart.”

Tobin’s cajoling smile turns shy as she answers, “Only yours matters.”

Christen’s trying to catch her breath and figure out how to respond to that when Abby comes through the front door. They wave, and she looks confusedly at the yellow beanie in Tobin’s hands. “Did you two just come out of the closet?”

“Yep.” Tobin nods and tosses her the hat.

“ _What!_ ”

The exclamation comes from above them. Their eyes widen as Kelley clears the stairs in three leaps, jumping to each landing. They all wince and send up a silent prayer for her ankles.

“What?” Christen goggles at the wild and frantic sight Kelley makes. Belatedly, she explains, “Tobin made us hide in there because she ate Becky’s gummy bears.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Kelley sighs in what sounds like disappointment and lifts her left leg to roll her ankle in circles, “Abby meant _literally_. So we’re still waiting on that figuratively, huh?”

“What!?”

“What?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of backstory for a rivals-turned-friends-turned-???, college soccer AU that would live in this world, if only I could get it down on paper.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-2016 El Clasico planning sesh ft. AL.

“Okay, so you guys have the gala and then you’ll meet us in Barcelona the day before the game. Can’t believe we’re actually making this work. I just sent Press the hotel I booked. Do you want the info, too? Why am I even asking? Of course, you don’t.”

Allie looks up from her laptop, a little surprised Tobin hasn’t responded to any part of her rambling.

“ _Harry?_ ” she sing-songs, seeing that Tobin’s on her phone.

Usually, it’s not hard to distract Tobin away from the thing, especially since she refuses to learn how to use any more than the basic functions. But this time, she doesn’t even twitch, completely engrossed in the screen.

“Harry!” 

Allie follows it up with a light kick to her leg in the middle of the couch they’re sharing. Surprised, Tobin looks up quickly, and then it’s Allie’s turn to be surprised because Tobin’s smearing a palm across her face, wiping away what has to be tears. Tobin’s not exactly shy about feeling her feelings, especially in the heat of a match, but she isn’t the type to get worked up over just _anything_.

There’s more than a hint of alarm to Allie’s voice when she blurts out, “Oh no. What’s wrong? Is it your family? Is it Christen?”

“What?” Tobin’s all sincere confusion, “Nothing’s wrong with anyone.”

She lets her heart rate settle before rolling her eyes. “It’s the middle of the afternoon, there’s no Arsenal game, yet you’re completely attached to your phone and tearing up. Something’s _off_.”

“It’s nothing,” Tobin’s trying to brush her off, but they haven’t been friends for this long because Allie’s easily dissuaded.

“You’ve come so far with Christen. All this emotional growth. Don’t backslide _now_.”

“Fine,” Tobin grumbles, pushing to sit up a little, “but only because you said the magic word.”

Allie’s eyebrows waggle as she repeats, “ _Christen?_ ”

Tobin’s responding blush is amusing, and so is how she awkwardly clears her throat. “Last year didn’t count, I guess. I don’t know. It was too soon for that? Anyway, this’ll be our first Christmas, you know, _together_.”

“Yes, Harry, I’m familiar with the concept of girlfriends,” Allie interjects with an eye roll and earns her own light kick to the leg, but at least it gets Tobin to focus.

“Shut up. Her birthday’s right after, too, so I’ve been trying to think of something good to get her.”

Frowning, Allie tries to imagine shopping for Christen Press. The girl is hyper zen but also high fashion, an intense footballer and an avid reader. Like most other women Allie knows, she’s a lovable mess of contradictions and _particular_ , to boot. So she guesses Tobin’s having, “No luck?”

“None,” Tobin blows out a hard sigh, “I’m not desperate enough to ask her sisters yet.”

“ _Yet_ ,” she echoes ominously and this time gets a pillow thrown at her.

“ _Shut up_. Ali, you know the one who’s actually _helpful_ —”

“Hey! You asked Kriegs for help before me?” Allie’s only mostly faking being offended.

“She knows Chris better from Sweden!” Tobin defends and waits for Allie to grumble her acceptance. “Anyway, she sent me the blog Chris used to write when she was over there. Thought it might help.”

Her shoulders slump in defeat. She wouldn’t have known to suggest that. “So. Did it?”

“Not about present ideas,” Tobin shrugs listlessly. Her face does a _thing_ , and Allie’s about to ask about it, but the words flood out of Tobin.

“I’ve been reading it and— _Fuck._ I’m so in love with her. Her _mind_ and just— Her heart and her _soul_ — She’s such a gifted writer. Sometimes I can’t believe she’s real, a part of my life.”

“Wait!” Allie scrambles onto her knees and grabs Tobin by the shoulders, ignoring how she’s trying to hide her reddened face with her shirt. “Christen’s _writing_ made you cry?”

It’s a statement more than a question, but Tobin nods, looking like it‘s the last thing she wants to admit because it’s not really about Christen’s writing but _Christen_ in her entirety. 

Allie knows better than to find it embarrassing. She knows that it’s beautiful and the best thing to ever happen to her friend after she first touched a soccer ball. “You _have_ to tell her that,” a lightbulb goes off, “You have to _show_ her that. Write it down! Her writing’s a gift, right? So give yours to her.”

“ _Oh._ ” 

She can practically see the idea taking root in Tobin’s mind, expanding, growing, applying artistic details. If it weren’t bound to be so wildly personal, she would beg to see the result. Then Tobin’s grinning, pushing Allie’s hands away and scrambling for the laptop.

“That’s mine,” Allie says faintly, but it’s lost on Tobin, and she doesn’t actually care.

“Chris _loves_ gestures and full circles,” Tobin mutters mostly to herself, shoulders hunching in as she opens up a new document.

For weeks, Tobin’s glued to her phone, pecking out sentence fragments in the notes app Allie didn’t think she knew how to find. She adjusts to the silence without game recordings, the lack of a constantly moving Tobin, the pause in their Mario Kart tournament. Finally, as they’re all dispersing after the last game of the year, Tobin must finish. There’s nothing to mark the occasion except for a broad smile and a quietly sincere, “Thanks, Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zero feelings toward AL’s playing, but she seems like a good friend.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet night in Portland/Tobin being Tobin.

It’s after a match.

(In their lives, it’s _always_ before, after, or between matches.)

Not one of their own but one Tobin recorded and had been watching before she recognized the subtle signs of the alarmingly rapid approach of Christen’s hangriness. Tobin reached for the pause button then the first pair of shoes she set eyes on, and now they’re wandering down the streets of Portland towards one of their favorite restaurants.

The sun’s just set, and there’s a light drizzle like usual this time of year, and they’re nothing more than two hooded silhouettes under yellow street lamps.

Christen happens to love it like this. The feeling of anonymity in the city they’ve both come to call home. No fans, no cameras, nothing to draw attention to them. But if it were Christen on the outside looking in, she would recognize them— _Tobin_ —immediately. 

The breadth of her shoulders. The hunch to her posture that Christen’s given up on trying to correct. The swing of her arms when she’s at her most content. More distinctly, the way Tobin doesn’t walk, but _skips_ , feet moving in a mimicry of the moves she’d just been watching.

“Chris, did ya see—” She pretends to nutmeg a ball through Christen’s legs then weaves out of the way before they collide. “I’ll rewind it when we get back. Oh and when—”

Hands on Christen’s waist from behind, a much gentler grasp compared to the match as Tobin tangles their legs fighting for possession of an imaginary ball. Christen’s less prepared for this tussle and starts to reel sideways, tripping into the path of an approaching woman. Tobin rights them just in time but still calls out a breathless, “Sorry!” over her shoulder.

Christen can’t stand it anymore. She grabs hold of Tobin’s elbow and pulls firmly, her stride direct and determined. There’s an alcove in the walkway between the next two rows of townhouses, a small space for meters and stuff, just out of sight of the main road. She only knows about it because of an inopportune downpour and a desperate search for shelter.

“Christen! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

She cuts Tobin off by taking hold of her hips and slowly backing her into the empty corner. Tobin’s eyes are wide and fixated on her lips before she leans in to kiss her sweet and slow. It’s quiet and intimate, the sky losing the last of its glow, the drizzle muffling the sounds of the street. They’re both breathless when Christen pulls away after one last peck. 

Tobin looks a little dazed as she murmurs, lips brushing Christen’s, “ _Oh._ Hello. What was that for?”

Christen grins, pops a kiss on the tip of her nose. “I just really love you.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the 2016 roster figured it out. Or what if—it’s a long shot but _what if_ —TC were actually subtle and/or everyone else more oblivious?

“Yeah, I will. Love you, too, babe. Bye.”

Christen’s busy sliding her phone into her pocket so she doesn’t notice at first. But then she remembers that if she doesn’t pay attention in this environment, she’s practically asking to be whacked with an errant ball or a flailing limb. So she jerks her head up quickly and blinks, flabbergasted, when she realizes the room is quiet and still.

No music. No dancing Crystal. No Kelley standing on a bench yelling/singing along. Even Carli, who’s so good at blocking out everyone, is frozen in place where she’s bent over to tie her shoes and just _staring_ at her.

“Wha—”

“Babe?” Pinoe interjects loudly before going even higher-pitched and more incredulous, “ _Love?!_ Who the fuck are you _loving_ and calling _babe_ , CP?”

She blushes. She’s a little darker than usual from an early summer tan, but it’s unmistakeable. She’s _blushing_ , and the formerly silent locker room erupts in catcalls and wolf whistles.

“Shut up,” she mutters, zero heat to it as she scurries to the cubby marked with her name and number.

Christen changes quickly, doing her best to ignore the teasing that eventually dies down when she doesn’t react. Ali comes over a few minutes later to nudge her, a silent apology for Pinoe’s outburst. “You good?” she asks, the question loaded with meaning.

Christen beams. “ _So_ good.”

Ali beams right back. “Good. As long as it stays that way, you don’t have to tell us anything. Not _yet_ at least.”

Their attention gets pulled by the locker room door pushing open again. It’s Tobin, ice packs cellophane’d to her thighs, eyes on her phone. Lindsey practically pounces on her “sister” for one reason or another, then Mal joins in, and Christen’s slip up is all but forgotten.

* * *

“Harry.”

“Tobin.”

“Tobes.”

“Toby.”

“ _Harry!_ ”

The last sharp exclamation finally gets her attention, and Tobin looks up a little guiltily. “Huh? What? What’s up?”

“Who are you texting?” Allie asks impatiently since it’s too early for most people to be awake and replying even on the East Coast and especially on the West Coast.

Without really thinking, Tobin starts to answer, “My gir—” before cutting herself off, but it’s too late. So she does the next best thing and literally runs away.

“Harry!”

Allie practically chases her around the cramped conference room, Alex and Kelley egging her on from their seats. Dawn’s yelling at them to settle down and watch their ankles, but she’s determined. Just before the doors, she catches up and jumps on Tobin’s back, sending them crashing into the doorframe and the person walking in.

“Sorry, Press,” Allie pants out after Tobin’s shaken her loose but at the expense of both of them falling to the floor.

Christen just rolls her eyes, this soft, _fond_ smile on her lips as she extends a hand to each downed player. Allie pops to her feet easily with the assist and is dusting herself off so she misses Tobin hooking a leg around Christen’s ankles and pulling to bring her down, too. She just turns around and finds Christen sprawled on top of Tobin, scolding her for dirty tricks.

Allie rolls her eyes hard. “Fine. Keep your secrets. For _now_. But what would your _girlfriend_ have to say about this, Harry?” she questions rhetorically, going back to her seat now that Jill’s fed up and finally starting the meeting.

* * *

“They spend _a lot_ of time together. Do you think Tobin knows?”

“Who Pressy’s _lover_ is? Please. You think she’s even noticed?”

“Truth. Think Christen knows who Tobin’s girlfriend is?”

“I bet she does. Girl’s a steel trap of secrets with all her zen.”

“What if it’s...”

“Each other? No. No way. They could never hide that. Tobes would bounce off the walls. Pressy would sprain her face smiling.”

“So we’re stalking them?”

“Until the truth comes spilling out.”

* * *

Tobin doesn’t actually make an excuse when she gets up in the middle of dinner, just waves towards the door and pushes her chair back.

Kelley doesn’t think much of it until there’s a vibration and she glances down to see Tobin’s phone, glowing with a message, a simple “ _Okay_ ,” from a contact named ❤️. Allie sees it at the same time and lunges for the phone before the screen times out.

_“Hi! This is Allie, the BFF”_

_“I’m sure Tobin’s told you all about me”_

_“We should get together soon”_

_“Wherever you are”_

_“Would love to finally meet you”_

The messages are sent rapid fire with Kelley and Alex nodding approvingly. They quietly and eagerly await a response so it’s easy to hear Crystal at the next table ask, “Who’s blowing up Pressy’s phone?”

Allie stands up abruptly. So do Alex and Kelley who immediately climbs on top of her chair. So does Pinoe who’s holding Christen’s phone. So do Mal and Crystal reading over her shoulders.

The eyes of everyone at the table pingpong between the two empty chairs, then, in unison...

“ _Oh._ ”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looming existential dread. JK, puppies and things not named by name bc existential dread.

“Tobin!”

Christen’s calling for her before Tobin even shuts the door, just back from being downstairs in the studio.

“Did you know about this?”

When Tobin slides into the kitchen—literally because she discovered that these floors are slippery-ier than in the studio—she stares confused at Christen. There’s nothing in her hands, no coffee, no book, no phone. No hints to what she’s talking about.

So she carefully asks, “Know about what?”

Yet, Christen can tell by her tone that she _somehow_ absolutely does already know. “First, it was Alex. Then it was Ali and Ash. Then it was Emily. _Sonnett!_ Of all people! Now it’s _Lindsey?_ ”

“ _Oh._ ” Christen taps her foot as she waits on Tobin’s real response which starts with a cringe. “To be fair, I think Bagel’s spent more time with Bailey than Sonny at this point in life.”

“ _Tobin!_ ” That one comes out closer to a whine. Christen is shameless as she plays up the smile that gets her absolutely _anything_ she wants and slips her arms around Tobin’s waist. “I want a puppy.”

“I know you do,” Tobin chuckles because they’ve definitely had this exchange before, like every time someone they know gets a new pet. “Wait, like an _actual_ puppy? Because that’s kind of—”

“A lot of work,” Christen finishes with an eye roll and then mutters, “Since when are _you_ the responsible one?”

Tobin presses her lips together to try to dampen the smirk, but it doesn’t really work.

“A _dog_ , then. I want a dog.”

“Me too. But it’s not like—”

“We have the time?” Christen interrupts again. Her eyebrow arches because, suddenly, all they have is time. And she’s not complaining, she’s really not. In their nomadic lives, time has been a precious commodity, with their priorities split across so many people, responsibilities, and obligations. To have this time to just _be_ together, to (re-)discover so many little things that get lost in the shuffle of constantly moving around, Christen’s thankful for this one aspect.

Tobin heaves a sigh but smiles because she’s already been thinking about it. “Maybe we can foster? Help out a shelter?”

Christen grins and walks her backwards to the couch and her laptop. “So I was already looking at the website..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay inside, y’all.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-CP’s post about being in the(ir) apartment for three days.

“You’ve _loved_ , huh?”

What’s expected is that Tobin can’t keep the smugness out of her voice. What’s unexpected is Christen’s reaction. Suddenly, Tobin’s got a solid weight in her lap and a face full of curls.

“Hey! ’m not a chair.”

Christen whips her hair out of both their faces and loops her arms around Tobin’s neck. Her next move is more familiar: a slow lean in until their foreheads are resting together, breaths shared in the small space between them.

“Funny. Because you’ve definitely told me to sit on—”

“ _Oh!_ ” Tobin pinches her side, and Christen yelps and jostles a little in her steady grip. An amused smile stretches wide across her face, so wide that Tobin instantly returns it. “You’re silly today.”

“Very silly,” Christen agrees, her smile easing into one of contentment. “Must be the love.”

Something settles in Tobin’s chest—in her _heart_. No matter how much is going wrong in the world, this will always be her happy place. With Christen, loving and being loved. She darts forward in a practiced move of two quick kisses: the first to Christen’s lips, and the second to the tip of her nose, which always makes Christen giggle, quietly under her breath.

“All the love?”

Tobin’s question is teasing, but Christen’s eyes darken. Her arms slide off Tobin’s shoulders, and then her fingertips are softly tracing over Tobin’s jawline, which always makes Tobin shiver, goosebumps on her arms. Tobin practically holds her breath as she watches the corners of Christen’s lips lift once more, this time in a way that’s a mix of smug and satisfied yet completely _hot_. Without thought, her face tilts up, and her neck strains forward, trying to reach an obvious target yet again.

The words are faint, but Tobin hears, and _feels_ , them perfectly, with Christen’s lips brushing against her own.

“ _All_ the love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I said I wasn’t going to write (more) quarantine fic.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C’s (quarantine) curls and afternoon naps are a few of T’s favorite things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is SO SHORT.

“ _Oh._ Hi there.”

Christen startles at the way Tobin crashes onto the couch. She bounces once then immediately drapes herself over an already reclining Christen.

Ignoring the tickling sensation on her cheeks, Tobin sighs contently. She could not, for the life of her, pick her absolute favorite part of Christen, but this is undoubtedly Top Ten.

_This_ being curled against Christen’s side, eyes closed, face buried against her neck, nose filling with the scent of shampoo and just _home_ , soft cloud of hair tickling her skin, mouth resting right under her hairline. 

It’s the best place to hide from the world.

“Don’t mess up my hair,” Christen softly chides as she moves a bit more off her shoulders, the curls Tobin was too impatient to sweep away. Then, she leans into Tobin, softens her shoulder and tilts her neck a little to cradle Tobin’s heavy head. They’ve got so many— _too_ many—throw pillows for this couch, but this right here is Tobin’s favorite spot. Never mind that Christen’s shirt collar is making a rough impression on her cheek.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she mumbles back, already dropping into a pleasant daze. Christen, warmth, Christen, quiet, _Christen_. What more does she need for the perfect nap?

Christen scoffs. “You _always_ dream of it,” she accuses, knowingly, _accurately_.

So many dreams, almost as many realities. Tobin feels her lips pull into a smile. Christen must, too, from the way she shivers, goosebumps rising under Tobin’s lips. “Yeah, you caught me.”

“ _Always_ ,” Christen stresses again. 

This time, a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black Lives Matter. [Start here](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/) and learn more. Protest, speak out, donate, be informed and deliberate, make a commitment, always do what you can.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christen owns a bookstore. Tobin becomes a voracious reader. Pinoe has a plan, sorta.

“Hell yes! Let’s go!”

Christen isn’t expecting that reaction to revealing she’s going to open a bookstore. Pinoe is a visual learner, an auditory learner, an anything-but-sit-quietly-and-read-a-book learner. Unbridled enthusiasm for a bookstore is unexpected but not unwelcome.

“Silent partner, cashier, reshelver, storytime reader, social media manager, general hype woman. Whatever you need, I’m there, Pressy. But I’m not learning the Dewey decimal system.”

“Not a library, P,” Christen smiles then, “Thanks.”

A year later, Pinoe has helped nearly every day with the build out and ramp up until every component and program is smoothly running. So, of course, Pinoe is there when _she_ walks in. _She_ being this lean, tanned _goddess_ who walks with such easy confidence that Christen pauses to watch. When she flashes a bright smile at Christen, Christen actually drops the book she’s holding, right on Sue’s foot.

“Ow,” Sue grumbles, handing over the hardcover once she’s checked her precious shoes. “Jeez, Meg didn’t mention injury hazards when she asked for help today.”

Christen knows it’s a joke. Sue’s helped since the start, and Christen couldn’t be more grateful. But she can’t bring herself to acknowledge the other woman right now.

“What’s— _Oh._ ” Sue gives her a sly smile and a light push. “Switch at the register. Send over my girlfriend.”

Still at a loss for words, Christen goes without complaint. Sporting a goofy grin, Pinoe dances away with the go-back cart. That leaves Christen to ring up a family, a book club regular, then a high school teacher. She chats and wraps each purchase in a paper bag and almost forgets until she looks up directly into that bright, _devastating_ smile.

“Hi,” Christen breathes, feeling ridiculous. Willing herself to recover, she scans the offered books. Coffee table book on graffiti, autobiography, fiction heavy on philosophy, and three children’s books. “Did you find everything you’re looking for?”

“Not yet but enough for now.” The woman’s smile turns bashful, and she blushes down at the counter.

Christen doesn’t know what to say so she recites the total, wraps up the books, and waves her out the door.

* * *

She’s back the next week: visual history of logos, Bible reader companion, three children’s books. The week after: Michael Jordan biography, _Sewing for Dummies_ , three children’s books. And so it goes, Wednesday after Wednesday. 

“Did you find everything you’re looking for?”

“Not yet.”

Tobin—first name basis now ( _finally_ , per Pinoe)—is something of a mystery. Christen tries to guess what she’ll pick with her wide range of interests but she’s usually wrong. Somehow, the unpredictability always makes her smile. 

* * *

“Your shoes are here,” Pinoe mumbles and practically marches her to the register.

Christen blinks. There’s no package but a whistling customer leaning against the counter. Her eyes flick down to the bright high tops, the ones Pinoe probably already searched on StockX, and she smiles.

“Hi,” she greets her most anticipated customer and steps behind the register.

The response is quiet, and the books slide closer. Christen frowns at the short stack and identifies them as only the children’s books. Instead of her usual question, she says, “You didn’t find what you were looking for.”

Tobin looks startled, embarrassed, and possibly guilty? Immediately, Christen feels bad for sounding accusatory. “I mean, do you need a recommendation?”

“No,” Tobin’s expression turns amused, “I just need to catch up. My nephews and niece read faster than me, I guess.”

They share a smile at the self-deprecation, and Christen finishes the transaction. “There’s a trick to reading faster: more pictures, fewer words,” she winks before handing over the bag.

Tobin laughs, and it lights up her face. “So I should play to my reading level? Stick to picture books?”

Christen shakes her head at the obvious exaggeration. “As if. You keep me on my toes, making sure our stock is as diverse as your interests,” she pauses thoughtfully and pulls up a memory from a catalog, “I actually could have a recommendation for you next week.”

“Yes, please,” Tobin beams, and Christen wills her heart to restart.

* * *

A familiar customer, looking disappointed, trudges up to the counter.

“Can I help you turn that frown upside down, Tobs?” Pinoe asks although she can easily guess what’s missing from Tobin’s day _and_ the bookstore.

“Hey, P,” comes the glum answer. “Did Chris leave me a book?”

“Yep, our fearless leader made a special order.” She exaggerates squinting into the cabinet. “You know, I called dibs on this, and Pressy almost had a heart attack. Like how _dare_ I steal a book from her _favorite_ customer.”

Tobin smiles first at the praise then glances at the book and smiles wider. _Art & Sole: Contemporary Sneaker Art & Design_. Her toes wiggle happily in the Jordans identical to the cover art, but she freezes up at the voice behind her.

“Hi, did you find everything you’re looking for?”

Tobin turns around and smiles again at the sight of Christen, backlit by the storefront windows. “Not yet,” a deep breath, then, “Could you help me find this girl I want to ask out? Beautiful, crazy smart, owns this store, knows all my interests?”

Christen takes a second before her grin bursts through her professionalism. “If you come back Friday at 7, I’m sure I could find her for you.”

Their obnoxious smiling is interrupted by Pinoe’s wistful sigh. “I love it when a plan comes together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss bookstores.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soulmates AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a half-baked idea.

Christen figures her soulmate plays football, too. 

Full body soreness after long training sessions and bruised sides from hard games could be from any sport. But the banged-up shins because someone obviously refuses to wear their shin guards correctly are very football-specific. She’s gotten used to all these sensations from her own exploits on the pitch and then doubled from her soulmate.

Based on the timing, she also figures they live on the East Coast to her West Coast, and it really sucks sometimes. Waking up early, vaguely feeling like she’s been body slammed all over a pitch and ran ten miles, then having to go play her own game. Same for afternoon practices when she starts aching right around lunch and has to get through three more classes. It probably sucks the other way around, too—wanting to rest and having to play all over again—but at least her soulmate gets the benefit of fresh legs.

She isn’t the only one. Plenty of her teammates complain about back-to-back, or, even worse, _simultaneous_ , games. Nothing riskier than concussion protocol trying to figure out if you’ve gotten your bell rung too hard or if it’s just pain on top of pain from your soulmate’s injury. Privately, Christen thinks that if the universe is going to all this trouble to identify soulmates, then The Powers That Be could at least split people up by interests. Artists with athletes, scientists with daredevils, something to balance the scales.

Instead, she rubs at her shin for the gazillionth time, wishing someone— _anyone_ —would yank up her soulmate’s stupid shin guards already. It’s been like this since they were kids, and Christen hopes they would have learned their lesson by now. If not for their own sake, then at least for Christen’s benefit. She doesn’t go through life living in a bubble but she’s at least conscientious about how any pain she feels is visited upon some stranger somewhere, even if it is muted and temporary. Meaning she goes out of her way to avoid unnecessary injury while her soulmate seems to be a walking magnet for it.

Somehow, though, she persists all the way through high school teams and club teams until she’s playing for Stanford, racking up wins, breaking records, and _still_ feeling unfulfilled. Part of it is because even after all these years, even after denying it to the ends of the earth and back, she’s playing, just the tiniest, teensiest amount, because it’s a connection to her soulmate. By playing at an elite level, she meets footballers from all over the country and eventually she’ll have to stumble across her soulmate.

_Right?_

The vast majority of the restlessness is because she came to college with the goal of winning a national title, and this is the closest they’ve come in her three years.

Nothing is going to distract her for the remainder of these ninety minutes. Not the phantom pains of her soulmate playing their own game somewhere, and not the _implication_ —the very obvious _conclusion_ —of having a soulmate who is playing _at the exact same time_ as the NCAA Championship. After a literal decade, Christen’s learned to tune out the sympathetic knocks and bruises, even when they’re happening while she’s pinballing all over a pitch, too.

She’ll deal with the other thing later.

So once she’s gotten up from a rough and late tackle that’s _finally_ called a foul, Christen is only focusing on the next play. She’s thinking about where to send this free kick, and definitely not noticing the player in blue who’s on the other side of the pitch but down on a knee. She’s watching her teammates jostle for position, and only seeing opposing players as obstacles to avoid. She isn’t registering the wide-eyed approach of #98, her hand on her hip exactly where Christen hit the grass, her desperate calls for play to stop.

The referee blows the whistle, and Christen signals then strikes with all her might. One second, she’s following the ball’s trajectory and leaning into a jog to chase down any rebounds. The next, she’s flat on her back, clutching her head, and wondering what just happened.

Again, the referee blows the whistle, and Christen hears teammates then medical staff gathering over her. But the pain is already receding in that familiar way when it’s not actually _her_ injury. So Christen is 99%—maybe _98%_ —sure she _knows_ what just happened, but she can’t be absolutely positive.

Not until—

“Is this why my legs are always sore!? You’ve got a cannon, Press.”

Christen rolls to her side and pushes legs out of the way until she sees blue fabric on the ground, barely ten feet away from her. Even as she stares back, Tobin Heath keeps one hand on the side of her head where the ball made impact. Suddenly, Christen’s laughing, but it’s all relief and disbelief and this overwhelming sense of _finally_ and _of course!_

From the way Tobin joins in, grins widely, and practically vibrates with excitement, the feeling is mutual.

“I’ve been waiting years to tell you this,” Christen bites her lip and waits for Tobin’s eyes to flicker down then back up, “Pull up your stupid shin guards.”


End file.
